With another carved-out sliver of time reserved just for myself, I showed up to the gathering in my baby-pink outfit—hair finally freed from its habitual bun, spilling light brown down my shoulders. It felt liberating, wearing pink.
No more light grays, medium grays, or all-black ensembles. Baby pink might have been a touch dramatic for In-N-Out, but beside Yahla in her preppy blue getup, I blended with the group.
"And then she handed me that viral coffee, disappeared, and became some rich designer," Yahla gushed over her milkshake to the other ex-coworkers I barely knew.
"I'm not rich," I laughed, nudging cold fries around the tray. "And I'm not a designer. I'm just a secretary."
"Yeah, to Mr. Bachelor himself. You haven't seen the magazine covers?"
I dismissed her with a wave of a fry.
"The job's fine, but—"
My purse tipped over and betrayed me before I could finish. Caffeine pills, melatonin gummies, and a bottle of cologne clattered across the tile floor. Thankfully, the rest of Mr. Fabrizi's belongings stayed buried in the depths of my bag.
"Wow, you really have to be asleep and awake on command, huh? And the cologne—what's that about?"
I gathered the evidence and straightened up, cheeks warm.
"It's for work. I have to be ready for anything. Once I quit, I can finally fill my purse with my stuff."
Sympathetic glances circled the table. My chest tightened. The spill had branded me: a woman with no life outside her job.
The irony? Somewhere in that purse sat a sticky note reminding me to enjoy life for myself.
Back home, I all but sprinted to the shower for a small-scale spa night. My scalp tingled in relief. Plush pajamas made the evening cozier—though I wore Sera Elganza's newest design, embroidered with flowers I had sketched myself. In the safeness of my Encino world, I wasn't expecting a knock at the door. Aunt Milly wasn't here, so it couldn't be a food delivery. Who on earth could it be?
I threw on a pink robe, bracing for a lost tourist. Instead, when I opened the door, my body froze—then I nearly screamed. So terrified, I blurted out his first name: Ennio.
"Nice pajamas," he said. "Did you vandalize the newest design on purpose, or—?"
"You're at my house—again! But you're at my door! Why are you at my door?"
I was certain I had done something wrong at work as he gazed toward the street, genuinely uneasy.
"Are you thinking about marriage? Is that why you're leaving?" Mr. Fabrizi asked, sharply turning back to me.
Absurd. This is why he'd driven all the way from Beverly Hills to Encino?
"Not the sole reason," I said cautiously, with a touch of annoyance. "But one day—hopefully."
"So you're dating behind my back?"
"No!" My voice pitched higher than intended. "No."
"Well, I heard from a few designers that you were dating Robert."
"I went on one date with him years ago. We never officially dated."
"Why not?"
Would it be terrible to slam the door and blame it on exhaustion?
"Not my type."
"Then who is your type?"
My hand drifted to the knob, itching to shut him out.
"Listen," I said, steadying my voice, "I haven't even had time to think about my love life while working under you. So why are you really here?"
If he'd shown up on any other occasion—preferably for work—it might have been nice to see his face. Freshly washed; no orange tanning residue. And shockingly in casual clothes, though still a boring gray.
"So because you haven't had the time—you're quitting?"
"For myself, yes. I told you. Personal reasons."
The door creaked as I inched it closed.
"Fine. I'll give you more free time. Ms. Fallon can be your assistant. Then you can stay and explore the wonderful world of love."
It sounded like a joke and landed like a slap. Clearly, he intended to keep me his secretary—forever.
"Do you really want to get married one day?" he pressed.
"Yes," I said, agitated. "One day."
He turned as if to finally leave, inhaling sharply. Then he looked back, brown chocolate eyes locking on mine—deep brown against brown.
"Fine. Keep your job. And yes—I'll marry you. Deal? Happy? I told you I was the best boss."